But these were the simple Arcadian days of the road between Big Bend and Reno, and progress and prosperity, alas! brought changes in their wake.  It was already whispered that Mary ought to be going to school, and Mr. Amplach—­still happily oblivious of the liberties taken with his name—­as trustee of the public school at Duckville, had intimated that Mary’s bohemian wanderings were a scandal to the county.  She was growing up in ignorance, a dreadful ignorance of everything but the chivalry, the deep tenderness, the delicacy and unselfishness of the rude men around her, and obliviousness of faith in anything but the immeasurable bounty of Nature toward her and her children.  Of course there was a fierce discussion between “the boys” of the road and the few married families of the settlement on this point, but, of course, progress and “snivelization”—­as the boys chose to call it—­triumphed.  The projection of a railroad settled it; Robert Foulkes, promoted to a foremanship of a division of the line, was made to understand that his daughter must be educated.  But the terrible question of Mary’s family remained.  No school would open its doors to that heterogeneous collection, and Mary’s little heart would have broken over the rude dispersal or heroic burning of her children.  The ingenuity of Jack Roper suggested a compromise.  She was allowed to select one to take to school with her; the others were adopted by certain of her friends, and she was to be permitted to visit them every Saturday afternoon.  The selection was a cruel trial, so cruel that, knowing her undoubted preference for her firstborn, Misery, we would not have interfered for worlds, but in her unexpected choice of “Johnny Dear” the most unworldly of us knew that it was the first glimmering of feminine tact—­her first submission to the world of propriety that she was now entering.  “Johnny Dear” was undoubtedly the most presentable; even more, there was an educational suggestion in its prominent, mapped-out phrenological organs.  The adopted fathers were loyal to their trust.  Indeed, for years afterward the blacksmith kept the iron-headed Misery on a rude shelf, like a shrine, near his bunk; nobody but himself and Mary ever knew the secret, stolen, and thrilling interviews that took place during the first days of their separation.  Certain facts, however, transpired concerning Mary’s equal faithfulness to another of her children.  It is said that one Saturday afternoon, when the road manager of the new line was seated in his office at Reno in private business discussion with two directors, a gentle tap was heard at the door.  It was opened to an eager little face, a pair of blue eyes, and a blue pinafore.  To the astonishment of the directors, a change came over the face of the manager.  Taking the child gently by the hand, he walked to his desk, on which the papers of the new line were scattered, and drew open a drawer from which he took a large ninepin extraordinarily dressed as a doll.  The astonishment of the two gentlemen was increased at the following quaint colloquy between the manager and the child.